


The Ballad of Love and Hate

by Heavenlea6292



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, F/M, Fluff, High School AU, mentions of abuse, sam/meg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:13:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(formerly Oleander and Tiger Lillies) It always struck Sam as odd though, hearing about how much Meg Masters didn’t care. Yeah, she was dangerous (he’d seen her fury first hand) and she was angry (always angry, always ready to burn down the world with her rage) but if there was something that Meg did with startling frequency, it was care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Meg Masters just doesn’t care._

That was the mantra chanted by every student, teacher, and principal that ever came within ten feet of the five foot, four inch spitfire brunette.

_Meg Masters doesn’t care._

She swore at everyone, openly questioned everything, punched boys three times her size for harassing her, and was known for spitting on people’s shoes when they got in her face. Meg was infamous, and people said all sorts of things about her: that she was the one who set the fire in the local amusement park a few years back, that she was the one who graffitied the incredibly anatomically correct penis on the history teacher’s door ( _she claimed that if she had done it, he deserved it- she’d had enough of him throwing pen caps down girls shirts- you know, if she had done it_ ), they said that she was part of a gang and that she had put someone in the hospital ( _no one knew who exactly, and no one knew why, and no one knew how- but it was generally agreed that she was dangerous_ ).

It always struck Sam as odd though, hearing about how much Meg Masters didn’t care. Yeah, she was dangerous ( _he’d seen her fury first hand_ ) and she was angry ( _always angry, always ready to burn down the world with her rage_ ) but if there was something that Meg did with startling frequency, it was care.

Sam always laughed to himself when they called her an unfeeling bitch. He wondered how many illusions would be shattered by the sight of her sitting on the roof of his garage with him, staring up at the stars, stroking his back, whispering to him _things will be okay soon_ and _eighteen is only a few years away_ and _If he ever touches you again, I’ll fucking kill him, Sam._

He wondered what they’d think of her wading through a house of three men twice her size when she walked by and heard the screaming, daring his father _Go ahead mother fucker, swing on me, it’ll be the last thing you fucking do!_

He wondered what they’d say if they heard the pet names she whispered in his ear ( _My Boy King, My Cause, My Sweet Forgiving Matyr_ ) and the confessions he whispered against her bruises, just like his, the way her eyes fluttered closed and she whispered confessions back ( _I hurt you, please don’t forgive me, I don’t want it, Sam please, don’t say it_ )

When they talked about how much Meg Masters just didn’t care, he remembered the time she had showed up at his house in the dead of night, armed only with a pink aluminum softball bat and a hunger for revenge; smashing out every window in his Dad’s truck and whipping the bat at him as he ran outside, clocking him in the head. He thought about the way she looked as she ran, her hair billowing in the wind as she almost took flight.   
_Touch him again, and it’ll be your face!_

He thought about sitting on the swingset at the park, watching her grafffiti the side of the small bathroom, boquets of vivid tigerlilies and snow white oleander blooms replacing cracked and faded paint; the way she’d come over and place her still paint-wet hands on the bruises and whisper _Mine, Mine, Mine_.   
He wondered if they knew how much she loved flowers, sitting side by side and looking at her newest masterpiece as she told him why it was always oleander and tiger lillies ( _See Sam, flowers have meaning, you know? tiger lillies represent pride, oleander means caution, a warning_ ) and how the first time they kissed she placed a single oleander bloom in his locker and he suddenly understood what it meant ( _caution, stay away, I’ve hurt you once, I’ll do it again_ ).

When they talked about how evil Meg Masters was, how she was ( _hell in high heels, mean as a snake and twice as dangerous_ ) he wondered if they knew about the secrets she held inside, so far away from the world, secrets that only he knew ( _I’d do anything for my father, Sam, I can’t help it, I can’t say no, oh god oh god oh god_ ) and the way she never actually held his hand, their fingers barely linked to the naked eye but her grip like steel. 

He wondered what they would do if they could see her riding in the Impala with him and Dean, hanging out the window and screaming with joy and the pure freedom, without the need for her walls, without the mask she wore to chase everyone away.

_Meg Masters just doesn’t care._

Sam always smirked when they whispered that, because he knew they were probably right.

_Meg Masters just doesn’t care- about anything but him._


	2. Chapter 2

Sam met Meg Masters when he was 14 years old, and the first time he saw her, he thought she was the prettiest and scariest girl he’d ever seen. It took a lot to scare Sam Winchester, he’d seen some scary shit in his life, but there was something about the brunette girl, as small as she was, that intimidated the crap out of him. He couldn’t tell if it was the red lipstick that only the senior girls wore, or maybe it was the twitching in her soft jaw (it twitched the way Dean’s and Dad’s did just before they got really mad- hitting things mad.)   
She was sitting on top of the baseball dugout in the park close to his house, a cigarette dangling between her lips and a very large stick in her hand, smacking at the fence. Her hair was piled in a bun on top of her head, and he could see the multiple holes in her ears, each hooked through with a safety pin. He looked up at her, shielding his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his head cocked to the side. She turned, giving him the meanest scowl he’d ever seen. Her red lips pursed, squinting at him.   
“Nothin, twit!” she snapped, banging her stick off the fence harder. Sam didn’t move to leave, meeting the challenge of her stare evenly, noting with a small smirk to himself that her tawny eyes looked huge, the way she’d done her eyeliner. It made her look a lot younger than the rest of her getup did.   
“Why are you hitting the fence with a stick?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. It wasn’t every day he got to meet new people, and definitely not people who seemed to enjoy smacking a fence with a stick. He knew Lawrence was boring, especially for kids, but he never thought it was that boring. She glared down at him again, lowering her stick as she moved closer to the edge. She dangled her legs over the side, kicking her boots and squinting at him.   
“Why not?” she asked. He shrugged.   
“Fair enough.”   
Obviously she wasn’t in the mood for talking, and he figured he wouldn’t hassle her any more- he hassled enough people with his presence. He turned to walk away, when the stick flew over his head and landed a foot in front of him. He jumped a little at the thud it made as it landed in front of him, staring down at it. Well, what the fuck was he supposed to make of this? He picked it up, turning back to face her.

“You dropped your stick,” he said, twirling it between his fingers. He could feel her eyes on him, studying his face carefully.   
“Didn’t drop it.”   
“Okay, you threw your stick at me,” he said with a hint of irritation, “You want it back?”   
“No.”

He walked over, holding the stick up for her to take it. She looked down at it and then at him, her nose wrinkling in a way Sam found kinda cute.   
She snatched it, reaching out and hitting his side and arm with it.   
Hard.

“What the hell was that for?’ he demanded, rubbing his arm. She smirked at him, winding up to smack him again. What the fuck was up with this girl?   
“Teaching you something,” she replied, smacking him again. He yelped, jumping out of her reach. He glared up at her, vigorously rubbing his arm where she smacked it.   
“What are you trying to teach me by hitting me?” he yelled, looking angry. She threw the stick again, it landing next to him. She looked at him closely, raising her eyebrow.   
“Aren’t you gonna give it to me?” she asked, swinging her legs.   
“No!” he snapped, stomping on the stick and breaking it, “You woulda just hit me again!” She nodded, her boots hitting the wall of the dug out in a rhythmic _clunk clunk clunk._     
“Good. You learned.”

He looked down at the stick, in two halves at his feet, and back up at her. What was she talking about? He couldn’t help himself, he was curious.   
“What was the lesson?” he asked, digging his heel in the dirt.   
“When someone tries to hurt you and doesn’t succeed, you don’t give them back their weapon and let them try again, moron,” she said, “You’re the weirdest boy I’ve ever met.”   
“You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met,” he replied, walking closer, “I don’t give people back their weapon and let them try again.”   
“Yeah, you do,” she replied.   
Sam felt a chill run up his spine as she looked down at him, her eyes keen and sharp as they looked him over. He got the weird feeling that, even though this was the first time he’d seen her- it was not the first time she’d seen him.   
It was the summer before 8th grade, and even though Sam was generally left alone, there were people who liked to fuck with him. More often than not, it was his dad, but there were a few dudes who liked to get a couple shots in when Dean wasn’t looking. His guess was, if she had seen him before, she’d seen one of those rare moments when Dean wasn’t looking. She probably thought he was some pathetic loser- great. He couldn’t even escape that label with a new girl.

“What’s your name, weird boy?” she asked, kicking her feet. He looked up at her, folding his arms across his chest and swaying on his feet.   
“Sam,” he replied.   
“Yup, that’s a weird boy name,” she announced, taking a drag off her cigarette and blowing the smoke down at him, “Definitely a weird boy name.”   
“It’s not!” Sam yelled, “I’m named after my grandfather!” Meg shrugged, barreling right past his response.   
“He must’ve been a weird boy too. What’s your dad’s name?”   
“My Dad?” Sam repeated. He didn’t want to talk about his dad.   
“Yeah, y’know, big scary guy, likes to yell a lot, big meaty hands,” she said, “Your dad. What’s his name?”   
Sam knew he wasn’t imagining it- she had seen him before, if she knew what his dad’s hands looked like. He felt a familiar crawling sensation in his spine as he shrugged.   
“John.”   
“I hate that name.”

He flinched a little at the hard tone in her voice, feeling guilty for some unknown reason.   
“I’m…sorry?” She shrugged, waving him off.   
“And what about that other guy who lives there. What’s his name?” she asked. Sam sighed, looking down. Here it comes, the questions about Dean, the ‘is he single’ and ‘what’s he like’ and all that crap. That was usually the only reason girls ever seemed to talk to him.   
“Oh…you mean Dean?” he said hesitantly, “He’s my brother.”   
“Dean is a weird boy name too,” she said dismissively, flicking the ash off the end of her smoke. Sam huffed a little, rocking on his heels. She didn’t seem interested in Dean at all, other than knowing his name- maybe she was interested in just talking to him.

“What’s your name, then?” he asked.   
“I’m Meg.”   
“Meg?”   
“Is there an echo here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.   
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I just…I dunno. Sorry.”   
“I forgive you,” she replied, “You wanna come up?”   
“Why? I thought I was weird.”   
“Yeah…?” she said, tilting her head and leaning forward, “You’re weird, what does that have to do with coming up?”   
“Why would you want me to come up there if you think I’m weird?” he demanded. She smirked, rolling her eyes.   
“Because I like you,” she said, “Duh. You coming up or what?”   
“You sure?” he asked hesitantly. She laughed and he thought it was one of the cutest laughs he’d ever heard. It was weird, but cute…kinda like she didn’t know whether to cough or snort.   
“Yeah,” she said swinging her legs back up onto the roof, “I’m always sure.”

She peeked back down at him, waving for him to come up. Sam shrugged, climbing up onto the roof next to her, keeping his distance. She turned and faced him, sitting criss-crossed as she tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ear.   
“As much as I love yelling, it’s nicer when I can actually see your face,” she said, scooting across the roof so that their knees were touching. They were close enough that he could see the faint dark circles under her eyes where the makeup had been rubbed away, and the way the tip of her nose looked almost red-raw, like when you’ve been crying and you don’t want anyone to know. His nose was like that a lot too.

“You have moles,” she said quietly, leaning close to his face. Sam blushed, lifting his hands to cover his face. He hated his moles. He thought they looked weird, like pimples he couldn’t get rid of.   
“Let me guess, they’re weird, like me,” he mumbled quietly.   
“Well, yeah,” she replied, taking a drag off her cigarette, “Why do you say weird like it’s an insult?”   
“Because it is!” Sam exclaimed, looking at her curiously. Did she really think that weird wasn’t an insult?

“Well, what do you think it means?” she asked, leaning back and grabbing her ankles, rocking. He snorted, slapping his thighs in irritation.   
“I don’t know, like…odd, strange, freakish, abnormal, bizarre,” Sam replied, looking at her sharply, “Want me to keep going?”   
“It also means mysterious, otherworldly, and unearthly,” she replied, smiling serenely, “Interesting.”   
“You think I’m mysterious and otherworldly?”   
“Unearthly and interesting,” she added, “Yes. I don’t say things just to hear my own voice, Sam.”

The idea that someone could find him interesting, mysterious, otherworldly was beyond him- his brother was always building him up, but everyone else made him feel like a freak, a loser. He never believed Dean anyways- Dean was supposed to say things like that. Dean was his brother. But for some reason, sitting on top of the baseball dugout with this weird weird girl, Meg- he actually believed that he could be interesting. She had no reason to say that to him. She didn’t seem like the type of person who would.

“I feel like you fell out of a book,” he said without thinking. She glared at him, pulling away a little.   
“I didn’t,” she snapped, “I’m a person, not a character.”   
“I didn’t mean that as an insult…” he said carefully, trying not to upset her. Stupid Sam, at it again with his big stupid mouth.   
“But it was.”   
“It wasn’t meant to be-“ he tried to reason, trying to come up with a way to stop her from thinking he was insulting her, but he didn’t get the chance.

“Where’s your mom?” she asked suddenly, cutting him off. Sam bit his lip, playing with his shoelaces.   
He hated answering that question. It wasn’t as bad as the people who knew about the house fire, who had all their own little theories of how it happened. For the longest time everyone thought Dean had started it, they figured with him not speaking for nearly a year after it happened that he must’ve had something to do with it, but more and more they shifted the blame onto John- he did it for insurance money, because he and Mary had a quarrel, some people thought it was because Sam wasn’t his. Of course Sam was, John had gotten a paternity test done after he heard the first whispers of Mary possibly being unfaithful, her second child belonging to someone else. But it never made Sam feel any better about it. No one really knew how the fire started, or why it started in his nursery. All Sam had to go by was his father’s grunted replies of, _“That happened a long time ago. Put it out of your head.”_   
“She died,” he said simply. She nodded, looking down at her boots.   
“Mine died too.”   
“Oh,” Sam said, feeling a swell of sympathy “I’m sorry.”   
“Why?” she asked, “You didn’t do it.”

He couldn’t argue with that…but still, he felt bad. He didn’t feel sorry for her…he just knew what it was like, and he couldn’t imagine being a girl and losing a mom. That must’ve been really hard.   
“I know, I just…” Sam paused, trying to find the right words, “I guess, I just feel bad that you lost your mom too. It sucks.”   
“I didn’t lose her,” Meg replied, “I know exactly where she is.” He blinked, his nose wrinkling. What the hell kind of answer was that?   
“Why do you take things so literally?” he asked, cocking his head. She shrugged again.   
“Why do you take things so metaphorically?” she shot back.

Sam laughed, looking at her with curiosity. She was odd, definitely. He felt at ease with her, though, the intimidation he had felt before melting away without him noticing.   
“You’re weird,” he said, grinning. She grinned back, tossing the long dead butt of her cigarette away and pulling out another one, the filter held between her teeth.   
“Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Meg lazily smoking her cigarette and Sam watching her, the way she left a perfect red ring around the brown filter, the way it dangled loosely between the tips of her fingers, the way it almost looked like she was snapping when she flicked the ash away. Finally, he got up the courage to speak again.   
“So, do you wanna hang out?” he asked. She looked at him skeptically, raising an eyebrow.   
“Dude, I hit you with a stick. Like, twice. Not exactly friendly behavior.”   
“Nah, that’s how we say we like you around here, hitting each other and calling each other weird,” he joked, smiling, “Way I see it, you asked me out on a date.”

Meg grinned, leaning close enough to kiss him, her fingers sliding through his hair. He felt his whole body go stiff, holding his breath as her lips nearly brushed against his.

“Sorry…I don’t date weird boys,” she said teasingly, pulling away, “But I definitely make it a point to hang out with them.” Sam blushed, picking at the sole of his keds. Hey, hanging out was a start, wasn’t it?   
“Then we can meet here,” he said, gesturing around, “Same time, every day, if you want.” She laughed sadly, shaking her head.   
“Don’t you have other people to hang out with?” she asked, watching him.   
“Do you?”  
“I’m not exactly friendly.”   
“I’m not exactly cool.”   
“You’re nice though,” she said, “Nice boys are supposed to have lots of friends.”   
“I’m not that nice.”   
“Good. I hate nice.”   
“But you think I’m nice.”   
“It’s slightly more tolerable if you don’t think you are,” she replied with a smirk, “Anyways, you can’t be that nice if you’re willing to hang out with a mean girl like me. Must not have a big bunch of pals to show off for.”   
“I guess I’m not a people person.”   
“So I’m not people?”   
“No. You’re a weird person, like me.”   
“And what are weird people?”   
“Invisible.”

He was surprised at how easily it came out, without a second thought. When he wasn’t at home, he really did feel invisible, like a ghost walking around, almost as if he could walk through people. He looked over at her shyly, hoping not to see rejection.

“It’d be nice to have a companion in invisibleness, I guess,” she replied, blowing a smoke ring and flicking the cigarette butt out of her hands, onto the red dirt of the baseball field, “Alright. We’ll meet here. Then maybe we’ll find something better to do than sit on the dugout roof and smack fences with sticks.”   
“Hey, I like smacking things with sticks as much as the next person,” Sam joked.   
She leaned over, pinching his cheek.   
“No you don’t.”   
She jumped off the dugout roof, waving to him.

“See ya later, weird boy.”


	3. Chapter 3

They spent their time sitting on top of the baseball dugout for most of the summer, talking about everything and nothing at all. Sometimes she had a book with her, or a drawing journal, but she never let him get a good look inside it. She’d coil her body around it, glaring at him.   
“Stop trying to look, Sam. You’ll see it when you’re ready,” she’d snap at him. When he asked what she meant, she’d bit her lip and shake her head, and tell him that he’d know when he was ready. Whatever that meant.   
  
Sometimes he’d bring some food, sometimes she did. They always met at the same time every morning, nine thirty, at the dugout, rain or shine. That year, Lawrence had a wet summer, but that didn’t deter them. The first time it started raining, they looked at each other with the same question- _should we go to your house?_ But they both knew that the answer was no. Home wasn’t where they wanted to be. And home was not where they wanted to take each other. They weren’t ready to show each other what lurked behind their doors on purpose. Seeing things in passing was fine, but anything more was unacceptable to both of them. So when it rained, they hid inside the tunnel tube on the big play castle, sitting so that their knees touched as they faced each other.  

She hated pickles and loved flowers. She had three little scars on the back of her left hand a jagged one on her right knee. She liked Ayn Rand and Anne Rice and hated Stephen King because he was overrated, in her opinion. She liked The Smiths, which he thought was weird; but she also loved Rob Zombie, which he thought suited her well.

They both liked peanut butter and banana sandwiches and argued for hours over which tasted better, Coke or Pepsi and they were clearly divided on the issue- Sam was staunchly for Coke, citing that the almost spiced taste was far superior to Pepsi’s sugary sweetness; whereas Meg argued that Coke was too bitter and that Pepsi had the right amount of bite. They both loved Indiana Jones, and sometimes, when they found themselves walking through town, Meg would call him Indy and Sam would call her Marion. It was like playing pretend without looking like little kids- besides, it was thrilling to play other people for a little while. 

One day they were sitting inside the tube, the tips of her boots tapping rhythmically on the tops of his keds as she hummed the tune of some song he didn’t know.  She did that sometimes- hummed some song he didn’t know, not paying any attention to him at all. She had the ability to make him feel like the only person who mattered in a crowd full of people, or like she didn’t even notice that he were there, even though they were the only two people around.  
“What song is that?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. She smiled, closing her notebook and setting it aside. She rested her chin on her knee tops, reaching out with her pen in her hand and began doodling on his knee.   
“ _I could have been wild and I could have been free, but Nature played this trick on me. She wants it now and she will not wait…but she’s too rough and I’m too delicate_ ,” she sang softly, looking up at him, “It’s The Smiths.”   
“Yeah, but what’s the name of it?” he asked, watching her draw swirling lines on his knee, a flower emerging from what at first seemed random. He could feel her eyes on him, lifting his chin to meet her. Her eyes were hard, her lips set in a hard line.   
“Pretty girls make graves,” she said seriously, before looking back down at his knee as she continued her drawing. He knew that tone she used a little too well.  Meg had an awful habit of never saying things straight out when they were important to her- she could be biting and harsh in her honesty, but then she could make her emotions more complicated than the labyrinth. He’d spend days trying to decode what she was trying to say sometimes. He never understood that about her.  

He watched her for a bit, finally letting out a soft chuckle and muttering, “And that other song?”   
“Which one?” she asked, not looking up. He hummed a little, remembering her playing it for him on her Walkman, cracked up as loud as possible as they pressed their heads together against the tinny headphones.   
“The one that goes, ‘ _Oh please don’t drop me home because it’s not my home, it’s their home and I’m welcome no more_ ’. What song is that?” Sam asked.

He loved that song. He wasn’t very fond of The Smiths unless he was in the mood (he found them crushingly depressing) but when he heard that line, it spoke to him. It was how he felt every time she walked him home in the orange light of the streetlamps, her hands stuffed inside her pockets and standing on the edge of his yard.   
“There is a light that never goes out,” she replied, pulling back from his knee, “Perfect. It’s done.”

Sam looked down at his knee, smirking. A swirling flower had taken over his kneecap, devouring the faded denim in thick lines and delicate tendrils, her initials penned boldly next to it where anyone could see. It was if she’d branded him.  
“Thanks for the flower,” he said, “My dad is gonna love that.”   
“It’s not just a flower, Sam,” she said seriously, “It’s an Oleander.”   
“Oh,” Sam replied, sounding confused, “Thanks for the Oleander, then?”   
“Never mind,” she snapped, folding her arms. She looked angry, but he’d dealt with enough angry people that day- his father and Dean were in rare form this morning, and he’d climbed out the window rather than try to wade between their fighting. He tapped her knee, pointing to his other knee. 

“If you don’t do this one I’m gonna look all lopsided,” Sam said hopefully. She smirked, rolling her eyes.   
“Nice try, Indy,” she said, her arms still folded. Sam pouted a little, pulling on her sleeve.   
“You can’t be mad at me,” he said, “That’s against the rules.”   
“We never made any rules,” Meg replied curiously.   
“Then we should make some.”   
“Fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around her knees, “What’s the first rule?”  
“You can’ get mad at me,” Sam said with a smirk. Meg reached over and smacked his arm, grinning.   
“That’s stupid. Everyone gets mad at someone sometimes.”   
“Okay, then we’re not allowed to stay mad at each other.”   
“Why?”  
“My Dad is mad at everyone all the time,” Sam said quietly, playing with his shoelaces, “And I think that’s stupid. If he didn’t spend so much time being mad, he’d be a lot happier.”   
Meg pursed her lips, thinking about it. After a moment, she nodded.   
“Fair enough,” she replied, “Any other rules?” Sam looked over at her, smirking.   
“You think we need anymore?”   
“Nah. I hate rules,” Meg replied, squinting at him. He leaned back a little, frowning. 

“What?” he asked.   
“Did you know that you’re a freak?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. He bit his lip, looking down. He had learned that things that most people meant as insults, she meant as compliments; but nevertheless that word hurt. Freak.  
“Why am I a freak now?” he demanded angrily. She laughed, reaching out and running her fingers over his chin.   
“Cleft chins are a genetic mutation,” she explained, “And so are green eyes. In fact, green eyes are associated with the devil, greed, and jealousy. You know, green with envy? Plus, your eyes aren’t just green, you know- you have that gold ring around your pupil. That’s called central heterochromia, and it’s also a genetic mutation. That’s a mutation within a mutation.”   
“Well that sounds uncomfortably ominous,” he asked, rolling his eyes.   
“And moles are cells that have mutated. Plus, less than 5 % of the male population in America is as tall as you are. You’re in like, the 97th percentile.”   
“And that means…?”  
“Well, it basically means you’re a walking genetic mutation. Let me know if you develop freaky cool mutant powers,” Meg replied, smirking, “Told you you’re a weird boy. Even your genetics agree.”   
“And let me guess, you’re just plain old average?” Sam snapped. Meg giggled, shaking her head.   
“Oh Sam, cut me do I not bleed,” she replied, “I am just a freaky as you are. I’m just better at hiding it.”   
“Oh yeah?” Sam said, grinning as he reached out and brushed his fingers over the safety pins in her ear, “And normal people stick safety pins in their ears?”   
“Teenagers do, but then again, Teenagers aren’t exactly normal I guess.”   
“Teenagers are pretty normal, if you ask me.”   
“And what exactly are we?” she replied, “Face it Sam, we’re freaks, and it’d make us both feel better if we could pretend that everyone else was just as freaky as we are.”   
“Yeah, but we’re smarter than they are.”   
“And more attractive.”   
“We smell better.”   
“And we can actually have a conversation.”   
“Not every conversation is about sex-“  
“But it could be, big boy,” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.  He swallowed nervously as she brushed her joke aside, saying, “Fine. So we’re too freaky and amazing to pretend everyone else is just as freaky and amazing. Who cares?”   
Sam smiled.   
“Who cares?” he repeated.   
“I don’t,” she replied.

Meg could make him feel like a huge freak. But then she made him feel like that didn’t matter.


End file.
